


thoughts of total defeat

by raikkonen (armario)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, binge eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 13:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21356941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armario/pseuds/raikkonen
Summary: Charles Leclerc enjoys a pizza :)
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 18
Kudos: 63





	thoughts of total defeat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/gifts).

> Just kidding. Pay attention to the tags. Huge TW for eating disorders.  
It's fitting that this is my 50th fic. I am venting so hard.
> 
> Plot was Malter's idea.

"I'm sorry," Pierre said earnestly. "We can hang out tomorrow, I promise."

When Charles didn't answer, he added, "You don't get it. You could walk out the door and have girls falling over their feet for you. This might be my only chance." 

Charles knew he was being unfair. Pierre was right. Yes, they'd agreed to meet up, but insisting Pierre didn't go out on a date because he'd promised to mess around and play video games with Charles would be stupid and selfish. He wanted to do something that normal kids did, away from karting just for a few hours, just to try and relax, take his mind off the pressure.

Now Pierre was telling him he had to spend hours alone, with only his destructive thoughts for company.

"It's fine," Charles said, harsher than he'd intended. 

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow," Pierre replied, relieved. "Wish me luck." 

Charles hung up without answering. He didn't want Pierre to get lucky with the girl. Danielle, or whatever her name was. He wanted Pierre to himself. 

Charles wondered what he was going to do to pass the time. They were supposed to order a pizza, play Call of Duty, watch a horror movie. If he was lucky, Pierre would let Charles suck his dick. They would stay awake till the early hours of the morning, drinking cheap alcohol and playing some dumb over-sexualised version of truth or dare. 

Pierre might get laid. He might go back to the girl's place. He might try and come back _here. _

His stomach clenched at the thought of listening to Pierre fucking someone else.

He could still order the pizza, though. He'd been so good; barely eating, sticking to his personally-devised nutrition plan. He deserved a treat, right? It wouldn't even matter in the long run- tomorrow he would work it off and make sure to eat cleanly. 

He checked the menu of the local pizza place. An 11" pepperoni pizza, cheesy fries, chicken bites, a litre bottle of Pepsi.... he may as well go all out seeing as he wasn't going to do this again any time soon. 

When the food arrived, he almost dropped all the change to pay for it on the floor in his eagerness. That should have been the first sign. _Slow down. _

He poured himself a big glass of Pepsi and started on a slice of the pizza while he plated it up. He left some in the box for Pierre, but the chicken, fries, and half the pizza were all his. 

He sat at the table, already finished the first slice. It tasted amazing. He hadn't eaten junk food in a long time; his iron self control forbidding it. A long gulp of his drink, the soda burning his throat slightly, and he was shoveling a handful of fries, coated in greasy cheese, into his mouth. 

He lost track of time, one slice after another, the oil dripping down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and finished the glass. He got up to pour himself another and while he was there, he took an extra slice of pizza from the box. Pierre probably wouldn't want to eat four slices if he'd already had a meal. It tasted so good, he didn't want to stop.

He wondered where Pierre had taken her. Somewhere nice? He better not have taken her the same place they always went. That would be sacrilege. 

He felt really sorry for himself. Just at the moment in his life where everything had started to go wrong, Pierre had to leave him. 

He was full by then, starting to get a stomach ache. That didn't stop him finishing off the plate of fries, the last piece of chicken, the extra slice, the added glass of Pepsi. 

In the back of his mind, there was a weak voice saying, _you should stop now._ It was nothing like the voice he normally heard telling him in hysterical disapproval, _don't eat that! Don't eat anything! Do you know how many calories that has? _

This voice was quiet and exhausted. It knew this was a bad idea. It warned him not to go ahead with it but he was already on his way back into the kitchen. 

What if this wasn't a one-time thing? What if she became Pierre's girlfriend? 

He really felt sick. Just thinking about the taste of chicken or Pepsi was making him nauseous, and yet he didn't stop. The food had tasted good at first, but now it tasted like cardboard, and every time he swallowed, his body protested.

Pierre might stop coming over. He'd be busy taking his girlfriend out; he wouldn't have time to spare for Charles any more. They wouldn't be allowed to touch each other anymore either, because that would be cheating. Pierre always said he hated cheaters.

He stood there, leaning over the countertop, mechanically chewing through grease and cheese and tomato and pizza crust, until the box was empty. 

There was no pizza left. 

For a good five minutes he waited, one hand clutching his stomach, believing genuinely that he was going to be sick. 

That would be a blessing; so of course, he wasn't. The familiar voice returned to its pride of place right at the forefront of his mind. 

_What the fuck did you just do?_

His hands were surprisingly steady as he searched on his phone for the pizza's nutritional values. 

_275 x 8 = 2200. _

Then the chicken bites.

_59 x 9 = 531._

He couldn't find an exact number for the calories in the cheese fries, so he rounded it up to 400. 

Then the drink.

_134 x 2 = 268_

_2200 + 531 + 400 + 268 = 3339._

Charles stared blankly at his phone screen and the number it was displaying. 

Almost automatically, he found himself grabbing his keys and pulling on his trainers and stuffing his earphones in. It was cold and dark outside. 

He still felt sick but it didn't matter. 

_That's what happens when you eat over 3000 calories in one sitting._ His body felt heavier. He knew if he weighed himself now, he'd break down and cry. 

He put his music on shuffle, turned it up full volume, and began to run. He didn't stop. He ran until his lungs were aching, his face flushed and whole body dripping with sweat. His heart was pounding, but he kept going. The muscles in his legs felt like they were going to give out. 

Whatever exercise he did wasn't even going to touch the disgusting amount he'd eaten. It wouldn't stop him trying, though. _3339\. 3339 calories._

The song he was listening to was cut off in favour of a ringtone. He glanced down at the screen, irritated he was being distracted, but he picked up immediately when he saw the caller ID. 

"Hi Charles," Pierre said disconsolately. 

Charles tried to compose himself before he answered but his breathlessness was obvious. "What happened?"

"She stood me up," Pierre said. He sounded ashamed. 

"Oh," Charles answered. Just briefly, he felt blissful relief flood through him. Then he remembered he was supposed to be disappointed. "That sucks. I'm sorry, man," he added a little too late, moving the phone further away from his face so Pierre couldn't hear just how harshly he was breathing.

He wasn't sorry. They both knew that he wasn't sorry one bit. 

"Anyway, I'll come back and we can do all that stuff we were going to do. I need you to cheer me up," Pierre sighed. 

Charles could think of several ways to cheer him up. 

"Want to order that pizza? I'll be back in like, twenty minutes," Pierre suggested. 

Charles froze. 

He had to get back. He had to hide the pizza box before Pierre saw it. No one could know what he'd done. 

"Uh, sure," he said. He shivered in the cold. The sweat was drying cool on his skin, and the temperature had dropped to about 4 degrees. He was already moving in the direction of home.

"See you in a bit."

Charles was exhausted, on the verge of collapsing. Having run about 3 random miles, he would now have to get back before Pierre did. It was an impossible task but there was no other way. He couldn't let Pierre see. He had to try. 

_3339 calories._

His legs didn't want to cooperate but he forced them to send him into a sprint. He didn't put his playlist back on because that would waste time, and the noise in his brain was loud enough without it. 

_What the fuck?!!!!!_ screamed his eating disorder. _Where is your discipline? You think you can ever become an F1 driver, losing control like that? _

Every time he took a breath, his lungs sounded crackly. He had a stitch in his side, despite the fact that generally, he was very fit. 

_Not if you keep eating like this._

He sounded hysterical. His breath was coming too fast and too loud, completely out of sync with his pace. Tears pricked at his eyes, although that could have been the harsh wind. 

He stumbled several times. He didn't dare to check the time because that would slow him down, but with a sinking feeling, he already knew he was too late. 

When he finally reached the hotel room, even though he'd stopped running, he couldn't get his breath back to normal. People looked at him strangely.

When he entered the room he realised why. The mirror hanging on the hallway wall showed his hair plastered to his face, eyes wild and bloodshot, chest heaving as he still gasped for air. His face was bright red. 

He heard the shower running. Pierre was home, but maybe he hadn't seen the food wrappers yet. Maybe he still had a chance. Quickly, Charles cleared away the boxes, stuffing them into the trash. He ran the tap and splashed his face with water, and as he did so, he instinctively pressed two fingers to the back of his throat, leaning over the sink. 

He gagged, but nothing came up. He kept trying, but as always, he couldn't do it. His distress mounted until he was holding back a sob. 

_You knew this would happen! Why did you do it? Why did you get that pizza when you knew you wouldn't be able to stop, and you knew it would make you feel like this? _

Salt... salt would make him throw up. But he'd eaten enough of it within that meal, and salt caused water retention. If the number on the scale went up more than two pounds when he weighed himself tomorrow, he'd probably throw himself off the roof. 

In his panic, he hadn't heard Pierre shutting off the water, getting dressed and coming into the kitchen. 

"Charles?"

Charles turned around. He didn't miss the way Pierre's eyes widened. 

"What's wrong?" Pierre asked, shocked at the state Charles had got himself into. 

"Nothing," Charles answered reflexively. He shut his eyes, exhaled. 

_It's okay. Act normal. _

He opened his eyes and gave an utterly unconvincing smile. "Nothing is wrong."

Pierre looked doubtful. He was about to argue, but Charles interrupted him.

"Can't believe she stood you up," he shook his head. "Did she give you an excuse?"

"No," Pierre replied, embarrassed. 

"Well, she's an idiot," Charles said. He folded his arms. "She's stupid. She doesn't know what she's missing." 

Pierre gave him a weak smile, but it quickly fell from his face as he stepped forward and Charles tried not to flinch away from his searching gaze. "Charles, you look awful. Your eyes are so bloodshot. Tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened, Pierre," he snapped, getting annoyed. He was this close to breaking. Pierre had never known when to leave things alone. 

"I don't believe you," Pierre whispered. He took another step closer. "What did you do?"

"Oh, I love how I must have _done_ something!" Charles hissed. 

"Have you seen yourself?!"

Charles went quiet, his mouth snapping shut. He didn't know how to deny it when it was written in his flushed face, red eyes, hyperventilation, that something was wrong.

"What happened?" Pierre repeated calmly. He tried to hold Charles' gaze, but he looked away.

"Seriously, Pierre, leave it. Let's just sit down."

"I am not letting this go. You were okay when I left." His expression softened as it dawned on him. "Is it because of Danielle?"

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Charles, I didn't realise... what did you do? What did I make you do?"

"Nothing. Nothing, it's not your fault, I-"

"Just tell me!"

"I already ate!" Charles shouted. "I ordered without you and ate the whole fucking thing!" 

Unthinking, he drew back a fist and punched the wall as hard as he could. 

That was it. 

Pain blossomed through his fingers. The screaming in his mind went quiet, replaced by the screaming of his body. The scale of the pain was like nothing he'd ever experienced. It was white-hot and overwhelming, stealing the breath from his lungs, radiating out from his hand through to the rest of him.

Pierre stared at him in horror. He looked like Charles had just confessed to a murder. He looked first at Charles' face, then down to his hand. It started to swell up. He didn't want to see up close the indisputably broken bones, bent at strange angles. 

He was quick to mask his emotions though, as he always was when it came to things like this. When it came to Charles.

There was a huge pause. Charles stood there, unmoving, grinding his teeth through the waves of agony that spread through him, reliving the feeling of his fist connecting with the wall.

Pierre swallowed. "Let's get you to A&E," he said, perversely brightly. 

Charles clutched his damaged hand to his chest. He'd felt the bones breaking. It was dangerous to mess around with his body like that- especially his hands, he needed his hands to steer- but just for that blissful moment of_ yes, I deserve this,_ he'd do it again and again. 

He would have to make sure his father didn't see his injured hand when he went to visit him in the hospital. He didn't want him to worry.

"I shouldn't have left you," Pierre said, guiltily.

_No, you shouldn't have._


End file.
